Words are Hard

In the room,
I sat in row, the first.
I sat in grade, the fourth.
I sat and stared at the room.

In the room,
A paper frieze of Presidents,
Their faces frozen,
and smiling at their residence;
Light peaked round
from the north,
And under the long windows,
Dick and Jane sang upon their shelf —
but I, their cadence, never caught.

I heard only their mumbled set.
I fought with every word met,
While Spot scampered and sweat.
And every ear judged my
whispered words so shy.

“See Dick run.”
“See Jane run.”
”See Spot run.”
Oh, stay away.

Words are hard.
Words are hard.
Words are hard
When they stray.

Mr. Taco pinched his slack’s crease,
leaning back to check the timepiece,
He smiled, my confidence to increase,
And I struggled, the sounds to release.

I found solace in Mona’s half-smile,
a Sistine festooned in marbled style,
a Watch in the Night, almost tactile,
and Michelangelo’s David, a gentile.

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